


The Taste On Your Lips

by notmyrevolution



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Blow Jobs, Explicit Sexual Content, Face-Fucking, Gunplay, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-15
Updated: 2013-07-15
Packaged: 2017-12-20 05:57:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/883731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notmyrevolution/pseuds/notmyrevolution
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fuck," Grantaire hisses, pulling Enjolras firmly back against his chest, “Do you know how you look right now?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Taste On Your Lips

"Fuck," Grantaire hisses, pulling Enjolras firmly back against his chest, “Do you know how you look right now?"

Enjolras shakes his head, just slightly. He looks debauched, every inch a mess from where Grantaire has manhandled him into place. His shirt is pushed up, leaving his stomach bare, and Grantaire’s hand finds that expanse of skin, runs his hands over the lines of muscles he has memorised. Enjolras already looks wrecked, and Grantaire wants to push him further.

"Clean it," Grantaire says, and holds his Beretta up to Enjolras’s mouth. Enjolras’s eyes close for a second, before he licks his lips and leans forward. His tongue finds the edge of the barrel, running along its length, and he looks  _reverent_. Grantaire makes a noise, cut off in his throat, and fists a hand in Enjolras’s hair, pulling his head back with a hard tug. Enjolras groans, ruined, and continues mouthing at the gun.

"Look at you," Grantaire says, a hot whisper against Enjolras’s ear. “You  _love_  this. Fuck, it’s just like when you’re on your knees with my cock in your mouth. I should make you do that. You’d look so pretty with my gun between your lips."

There’s no reason to what he says, a filthy litany of words, and Grantaire decides to make good his threat. He twists his hand in Enjolras’s hair, pushes him to his knees, and circles around to face him. Grantaire can hear his own heartbeat, and his breath catches at the sight of Enjolras on his knees, staring up at him with defiance. Grantaire pretends to have control, but he couldn’t resist if he tried.

Enjolras’s mouth falls open, and the Beretta fits between his lips like it was made for them. Enjolras’s cheeks hollow, and Grantaire keeps his hand steady. He doesn’t move, he wants to see what Enjolras will do. He’s not disappointed.

Enjolras’s eyes flutter closed for a second, and he moves his head, taking more of the Beretta into his mouth, and Grantaire can’t breathe. Enjolras looks up at him, eyes lidded and pupils blown and Grantaire can tell that he’s running his tongue along the underside of the barrel. His head bobs, throat swallowing reflexively, and Grantaire watches as Enjolras sinks down, taking the entire length of the gun into his mouth until the trigger guard presses against his lower lip.

"Fuck," Grantaire hisses, words escaping him, because Enjolras is fucking  _blowing_  his gun and fucking  _enjoying_  it. Enjolras pulls back, mouth free, and gasps for breath, chest rising and falling. He reaches up, curls his fingers around Grantaire’s wrist and holds him still, keeping the gun still as he laves his tongue along the side of it. Grantaire’s skin burns where Enjolras is touching it, and he can’t take his eyes off the curve of Enjolras’s lips, or the attention he lavishes on the gun.

It’s too much.

Grantaire pulls the gun away, ignores the low whine that comes from Enjolras’s throat and the way he follows after it.

"Shut up," he snaps, setting the gun aside and using his now-free hand to tangle in Enjolras’s hair. “I’m going to give you what you want, so shut up."

Grantaire moves his free hand, popping the button on his jeans and working them open. It’s difficult with one hand, but he needs the other fisted in Enjolras’s hair, holding his head back. Enjolras licks his lips, breath hitching, and he looks expectant, a moment away from demanding. Grantaire tugs,  _hard,_  and Enjolras bites back a moan and Grantaire can’t hold himself back anymore.

Grantaire pulls his cock free and he’s hard enough to hurt, he’s been wound up since he caught the look Enjolras gave his Beretta when he pulled it out. Now, he tugs Enjolras’s head forward, insistent, and he doesn’t need to ask, because Enjolras wants this as much as he does.

Grantaire hisses out a breath between clenched teeth, and flexes his fingers in Enjolras’s hair. The feel of Enjolras’s tongue on his skin is maddening. Enjolras shows his cock the same attention he showed the gun. One hand comes up, and his fingers grip into Grantaire’s thigh, as if Enjolras is anchoring himself.

The Enjolras swallows him down, mouth closing around Grantaire’s cock and Grantaire can feel the pull as Enjolras swallows. He’s bigger than the gun, but Enjolras sinks down with ease, throat open, until his nose is nudging against Grantaire’s stomach.

Grantaire holds still, the hand in Enjolras’s hair tight, but not controlling. He holds still until Enjolras looks up and tugs on Grantaire’s thigh, and Grantaire is amazed Enjolras can still look so demanding with a cock in his mouth.

Grantaire is never one to disappoint Enjolras when Enjolras is making demands, but he’s not going to make it  _that_  easy. He hasn’t lost all control yet.

“Do you want something?” he asks with a throaty chuckle. Enjolras pulls back with an obscene noise, and growls impatiently.

“You know what I want,” he says, voice full of pent-up frustration.

“Sure, I do,” Grantaire says with a lazy smile, and gives a pointed tug on Enjolras’s hair, “But I want to hear you beg for it.”

Enjolras stares at him defiantly, and Grantaire stares back, confident. He’s not going to break first, because he wants this but Enjolras  _needs_  it. He refuses to back down.

“I want you,” Enjolras says, swallows around his words, “To stop grinning and get on with fucking my mouth, before I get up and leave. I  _can_  take care of myself.”

“Sure you can,” Grantaire says with a half shrug, “But who would hold the gun?”

Enjolras opens his mouth to argue, except Grantaire fists both hands in his hair for leverage and presses his hips forward. Enjolras cants his head, mouth falling open, and Grantaire thrusts slowly, rocking his teasingly until Enjolras makes a frustrated noise. Then he pauses, just for a moment, before snapping forward sharply. Enjolras moans, a muffled sound against Grantaire’s skin, and his fingertips press into Grantaire’s thigh tightly, holding on. Grantaire watching in rapt attention, watching the way his cock slides effortlessly in and out of Enjolras’s mouth.

Grantaire groans roughly, and he knows he’s moving hard, fucking into Enjolras’s mouth and Enjolras takes it. Grantaire flexes his fingers, grips those curls tightly, keeps Enjolras in place. Enjolras’s eyes close, and he presses a palm against the front of his jeans, where Grantaire knows his cock is pressing tightly against the zipper. It’s hot as fuck, knowing Enjolras is barely holding on.

Because this is what Enjolras needs. He needs the control stripped from him, he needs to place himself in Grantaire’s hands and let himself be  _used._

Everything is tight heat, and Grantaire’s hips are stuttering, losing rhythm, snapping forward hard.

“Enjolras,” he gasps in warning, and Enjolras looks up at him, hums his consent. It’s enough to send Grantaire falling over the edge, grip painfully tight as he fucks into Enjolras’s mouth until his back bows and he comes with a ragged cry. Enjolras swallows with a pleased moan.

Grantaire gasps, loosening his fingers and letting Enjolras pull away, while Grantaire catches his breath. They’re both panting, and Grantaire feels his legs go weak, until he has no choice but to drop to his knees on the floor. Enjolras looks wrecked, and his body is nearly thrumming with tension. Grantaire can’t help focusing on his mouth, reaching over and dragging his thumb over Enjolras’s lower lip, which is full and red and  _abused._

“Grantaire,” Enjolras says, voice rasping, and it’s  _not_  a please, but he sounds desperate.

“Touch yourself,” Grantaire commands, “Do it.”

Enjolras works his own jeans open in a hurry, pulling his cock free. It looks painfully hard, and Enjolras makes a relieved sound as he wraps a hand around himself, stroking hard and fast. He’s too far gone to waste time, and Grantaire lets him have this, watching him with rapt attention. Enjolras coming apart is the most beautiful thing Grantaire has ever seen.

Grantaire reaches for the table next to them, closes his fingers around the Beretta and lets the weight sit heavy in his hand as he brings it back over to press against Enjolras’s cheek. It’s a beautiful contrast, the black barrel indenting the pale mardle of his skin, and the artist within Grantaire purrs.

Enjolras closes his eyes, bites down on his abused lower lip and turns his head into the gun. Grantaire shoves gently, makes the gun’s presence known, and growls.

“Come for me,” he demands, and slides the Beretta down, pressing the barrel against Enjolras’s mouth and using the muzzle to pull down on his lower lip. Enjolras makes a broken noise, a high keening, and jerks his hips forward, spilling over his fist.

They’re quiet for a moment, the air filled by harsh breathing and Enjolras slumps forward, dropping his head to rest against Grantaire’s collarbone. Grantaire sets the gun aside gently, and brings his hand up to pet soothingly through Enjolras’s hair.

“You just got off to having a gun against your head,” Grantaire teases gently. Enjolras bites at his collarbone, pressing his teeth down through the thin cotton tee in a half-hearted warning. He’s still too gone to speak.

“Now I’m gonna have to clean it,” Grantaire continues, turning his head to look at the gun and huffing out a breath of laughter.

“That’s what got us into this,” Enjolras says, and he sounds  _wrecked_ _,_  thoroughly debauched and abused.

They stay kneeling for several moments, until Enjolras pulls away slowly. Grantaire tugs playfully at a wayward curl, and looks down at the mess of their clothing.

“Shower?” he asks, feeling hot and sticky in his clothes, where they cling to his body. Enjolras’s nose wrinkles up in distaste and he nods, pulling himself to his feet.

“Shower,” he agrees, and holding his hand out for Grantaire.

Grantaire takes it, and leaves the gun on the floor.

**Author's Note:**

> [Tumblr!](http://notmyrevolution.tumblr.com)


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